Lords of Wrath: Chapter 17

“I’m going to need you to handle this book thing,” Tristian says when I answer the phone. He and Killian are two of the only people who call me instead of texting, so dealing with this ‘book thing’ is going to be a pain in the ass, because the rest of the frat doesn’t give a shit. Luckily, Tristian adds, “I just told everyone to swing by.” After a pause, he explains, “Actually, I might not make it back tonight.”

“What’s going on?” It’s not like Tristian to just bail on us, especially when our Lady is finally in need of his obnoxiously giving nature.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but I know instantly he’s bullshitting. “Honestly, nothing to bother you two about. I sent some money to the LDZ account, alright? Give our Lady a kiss for me.”

I hang up, still sprawled on the couch in my room. I’d just been getting into this sweet Zeppelin vinyl when I got Killian’s mass text about Story needing some books or something. After a quick text-to-voice pass, I realized it was that stupid charity thing the Royal women like to do every year. I had to jump through a few hoops to get access to the spreadsheet, and then send it off to Tristian to pass around to the others.

Jesus.

Mondays.

The guys start rolling in twenty minutes later, lugging boxes of books and supplies with them. I stand at the entrance, drinking a beer, and direct them all to the basement, giving each member a nod in greeting. It’s only been about three hours since Killian set this ball into motion, and I have to admit, I’m a little impressed at the response.

He and Story arrive amid the commotion.

Killian jerks his chin at me. “How many?”

I scratch my head, thinking, “About twenty, so far.”

Killian nods, watching Grant Patel, a neurotically harried sophomore, haul his second box of books down the hall. “Good. We’ll have to make a note of who comes last.” He gives me an evil grin that I’d usually be all about sharing, but it’s weird. For the last few weeks, Killer’s been such an insufferable shit. Always sulky and sharp-tongued, too tense for his own good.

Right now, he actually looks like he’s in a good mood.

Covertly, I look Story over, searching for any signs of violence or harm.

All I see are two pink cheeks and a very confused expression. “What’s going on?” she asks, watching another LDZ member trudge in with a stack of books.

He directs another guy to the basement and casually says, “I said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

She looks between us, forehead creased in a frown. “Take care of what?”

“The books and supplies you need for that charity bullshit.” I tip my bottle back, taking a nice, long swig. “If I were you, I’d have the guys deliver them, too. There’s like a thousand on that list. Nobody’s got time for that.”

Her mouth freezes into a shocked little ‘o’. “These are all for me?”

I point the neck of my beer bottle toward her. “Technically, they’re for underprivileged kids.”

She slides her wide eyes to Killian. “That was so fast!”

Oof.

That hint of a sparkle in his eyes at the way she looks at him?

Killer Payne’s got it bad.

I don’t know how she doesn’t see it. She thinks he just hates her and wants to see her suffer, but she never sees the other shit. Months of him pining over her while she was living under his own damn roof. An entire year of high school spent following her with his eyes. Months of him drowning his sorrows in pussy and fistfights after seeing her with his dad. Then, after she left, years of wallowing in his own bitterness over it, knowing full well she got the best of him.

This fucker would walk over hot coals if she just came out and asked him to.

Maybe she’s getting the idea.

Can’t hurt to talk him up a bit. Shrugging, I say, “Killer told everyone to drop what they were doing and get it done, ASAP.”

She gapes at him, even though I can see that flash of surprised delight in her eyes. “You didn’t have to do that. I still have a few days.”

Killian’s staring straight at her mouth. For the first time, I feel that crackling tension between them, like maybe they just made out or something. He looks away, that patented Killer Payne mask of indifference sliding into place. “It’s a busy week. Might as well get it over with.”

I glower at him, bottle swinging lazily from my grip. Dumb as a box of rocks. All the pleased delight gets sapped right out of her eyes.

“Ah. Well, thank you,” she says, ducking her head.

Jesus fucking wept.

“Why don’t we go down and check them out?” I don’t know why, but seeing that dejected curve of her shoulders is suddenly like a knife to my chest. “We can mark off what we get.”

She gives me a small smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Okay. Where are they taking them?”

I use my bottle to point down the hall. “The basement.”

The color drains from her face instantly, voice emerging in a cracked whisper. “The basement?”

Killian flicks his eyes to her, and then to me, and here’s the thing. He can be a sort of hard guy to read. Killer’s all about this whole stoic façade, like nothing can faze him beyond anger and hatred and a general distaste for things being out of order. But Tristian and I aren’t just anybody, and I’m fluent in almost every Killianism.

He’s wincing. “There’s more space down there.”

It doesn’t matter. Our Sweet Cherry takes two steps back, like someone just threatened her with a machete. “I’m not going down there. You can’t—you can’t make me.” Her jaw is set, and I might not know Story as well as I know her stepbrother, but I know her well enough to see when she’s digging her heels in.

I give Killian a meaningful look, tossing a hand in her direction.

See? You’re the reason we can’t have nice things.

At Killian’s glare, I approach her, undeterred at her flinch. She loosens a bit when I just nudge her chin, forcing her gaze to mine. “Baby, it’s just a room.”

Her lip wobbles. “Please don’t make me. Please?” She says the last to Killian, with a lightning-quick glance, like maybe he’s too much to look at right now. I wonder which night she’s even remembering—Killian forcing her to her knees in front of forty men, or him and Tristian having that doctor shoot a tracker into her flesh—and wow. Now that I think about it, yeah.

Fuck that basement.

“Well,” I sigh, tossing the last of my beer back. “There’s only one thing to do.” I call for Marcus, who’s just now walking in the door with a group of juniors. “Change of plans. The Lady wants everything upstairs, which means we need some people to lug everything back up from the basement. That’s on me for not asking her first. Now,” I say at their irked expressions, “she seems to think this might be an inconvenience, but like I told her, LDZ will do whatever it takes to please their Lady. Isn’t that right?”

Instantly, they all snap to, nodding.

“Sure thing,” Marcus says, giving Story a grin. “Where would you like them?”

It’s Killian who answers, “Put them in the back of my truck,” but after a moment of their skeptical looks, he turns to Story. “If that would please the Lady.”

Fuck me.

He doesn’t even say it all snotty-like.

What the fuck happened after they left campus?

Story gives Marcus and the others a rapid nod. “I think—yeah, that’d be good. Thank you. I’m sorry.” Quieter, she repeats, “Thanks.”

That warms them up a bit, so it’s not long before they have all the books stacked in the back of Killer’s truck.

“I’ve got a meeting with the team,” Killian says, but he shoves his hand in his pocket and tosses the truck keys to me. “You guys okay delivering them by yourself or do you need the pledges to help?”

“Oh,” Story says, pulling out her phone. “Bianca told me the drop off is at the South Side Community Center.” She looks up from the screen, meeting my gaze. “You know where that is, right?”

I groan, throwing Killer a glare. “Don’t make me go to that place. I can’t handle kids today.” Always asking questions, with their sticky hands and shrewd little eyes, and they just don’t care. They’ll tell or ask you anything, and they’re such dogged, toxic little shits about it. I should know, I used to be one. “Man, kids are dicks.”

Story bites her bottom lip, looking up at me with those big doe eyes. “Please?”

And that’s how I spend the next hour perched on the roof of Killer’s truck, legs folded, the hood of my jacket raised as the rest of LDZ rolls in, three or four deep. I prop my elbows on my knees and rub my temples, hoping like hell I’m not about to take a ride to migraine town.

I get to look at my Lady in between deliveries, though, which doesn’t make it so bad. She sits on the lowered gate, her feet swinging as she tips her face up to the sky, basking in whatever thought is running through that pretty little head. She’s looking hot as fuck today in that little skirt and tight sweater, but I already know she’s not down to fuck.

She still hasn’t called me Dimitri.

I watch with the barest amount of tolerance as each member presents their books to our Lady like they’re jewels or something.

“It’s not on the list,” Jordan Hashford is telling her, pulling a book from his stack. “But this was one of my kid brother’s favorites. Look, it’s pop-up and everything.” Jordan’s sending these looks to me, as if he wants me to see how much of a fucking suck-up he is.

Shit’s hilarious.

Liam Poole is even worse of an ass-kisser. “I found some Spanish versions for these five books. You never know, right?” He gives Story a winning smile I’m sure has dropped panties at some point.

Story won’t meet his eyes. “Thank you, that was very thoughtful.”

It’s just past four when the last fucker arrives, and I should probably make him take Story to the Community Center, but I don’t. She pulled out those eyes and that goddamn ‘please’, and I pray to fucking god she never realizes how much of a sucker the three of us are for it, because suddenly, here I am, driving us to South Side.

When I pull into the Community Center parking lot, Story looks out the window at the square building, eyes curious. “This isn’t so bad.”

Taking the key from the ignition, I give myself a moment to lament my lack of buzz. “You should have seen it five years ago,” I say, following her gaze. “It was in this shitty old brick building out near the avenue, surviving on scraps of funding from the county. The building inspector gave notice it was going to be demolished, so they had to find new digs.”

“What happened?” Her gaze moves to mine, full of interest.

“The Lords happened.” Shrugging, I tiredly explain, “Daniel grew up going there, and the three of us spent a few summers doing volunteer work—coaching camps and stuff.” I give her a long, significant look. “Hence, the kid trauma. But the frat adopted it as our cause, and two years ago we raised enough money to build a new center.” I gesture to the building in front of us. “And there it is.”

“Wow,” she says, her stunned eyes taking in the playground in the distance. “I can’t believe the Lords did all that.” The impressed, soft expression on her face shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Gaining Story’s approval is an uphill battle. Sure, I can make her gasp my name while she’s coming on my hand, but actual, genuine admiration? Fuck, maybe I should tone down my hatred of children.

Shit.

Maybe I’ve got it bad, too.

It only increases when we step inside and Clara, the director of the program, comes out to greet us. “I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Story says, cheeks pulled back in a grimace, “but it all kind of came together in the blink of an eye.”

“We never say no to gifts,” Clara says with a smile. “We’ve got a group of kids here for the after-school program. I know they’ll be excited to see what you brought!”

Story follows her while I head back to the truck with two members of the staff. One of them must be new because he keeps sending me these wary, suspicious looks, like he’s never seen someone walk into this place with his hood up and metal in his face. Good. The less approachable I look here, the better.

It takes seven trips to unload it all, and by the time we’re done, Story and Clara have already rounded up all the kids and gathered them in the main room. The energy of the place explodes when they see all the books.

I fold my arms and try to look scary and above all this fuckery. Not that it works, because kids don’t give a shit. One boy walks right up to me, shoulders squared like he owns the place. He’s small, maybe in kindergarten, but I can already tell he’s got one of those big personalities.

“Can I have one?” he asks, pointing into the box at my feet.

Looking away, I mutter, “Take what you want.”

He makes himself comfortable as he sorts through the box. “Why’s your face so spiky?”

“What?” I give him my best withering glare. “That question doesn’t make any sense.”

“Spiky,” he repeats, wiggling two fingers from his lips. “Shiny spiky.”

Snorting, I tell him, “They’re piercings, Hoss. You’ll understand when you get older.”

He makes this scrunched face, like maybe I just broke his brain a little. “I don’t think I’ll get a spiky face, even when I’m a hundred years old.” He gives a low giggle. “It looks funny.”

I glare harder. “Your face looks funny.”

“Yeeeah.” He nods, accepting this as a fair assessment. Jesus. Six-year-olds. So soulless, you can’t even insult them.

“I want this one!” He raises a book, eyes wide and excited, and he just won’t go away until I take it.

I look at the cover. There’s a girl on the front, dressed in pink, with fairy wings. “Congratulations. You have a new book.”

“Yes!” His eyes light up. “Can you read it to me?”

“No.” Hell no.

He gives me a long, calculating look. “Yes.”

Bristling, I argue, “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

I pull myself to my full height. “No.”

He pauses, head craning to meet my gaze. “…yes.”

“Does this really work for you?” I watch him incredulously, three feet of pure stubborn wickedness. This has to be against the Geneva Convention or something.

“Sometimes.” He bats his eyes and butter couldn’t fucking melt. “Will you read it now?”

Story and the other workers are handing out books to the rest of the goblins. I turn back to him and growl, “Pound sand, kid.”

“Please?” He asks, lip pouting obnoxiously. “Just one time?”

The next time I look up, I realize Story is watching me, frozen as she observes our standoff. I try to let go of some of the aggressive posture, but I feel in between a rock and a hard place here. If I’m a dick to this kid, she’s going to hold it against me.

Familiar anxiety fills my chest as I stare at the words on the cover. It takes me five tries to sound it out in my head. Tinkerella. Just the thought of opening this thing and reading it aloud makes me want to blow chunks.

I crouch down to reason with this kid. “Look, Hoss, here’s the deal, man to man. I’m not actually good at reading, alright?”

Little Hoss gives me a very grave nod. “Me either.”

Well, fair enough.

Growling in frustration, I snatch the book up, flipping it open. He responds with a beaming grin, dropping right to the floor, eager and ready.

Pulling my hood a little lower, I sit down and open the first page. The words swim for a minute, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath, just like Story taught me to do. Keeping my voice to a low mutter, I read the first line.

“Tinkerella wasn’t an…an…” I feel the word out on my tongue, “ordinary…fairy. She was an…extra…ordinary fairy…” I go rigid, waiting for Little Hoss to make a shitty comment.

He gives a firm nod.

Glancing up, I spot Story across the room. She’s watching me, a small smile on her pretty mouth. A proud smile.

Okay.

Guess I’m doing this.

Fuck my dick.

“Unfor….unfortun…unfortunately,” I continue, taking my time with each word, “no one knew how…spec…special she was…” I put my finger below the words, following them with my tongue. I go tense every time I know I sound stupid. My stomach twists uneasily, and I can practically feel my old teacher standing over my shoulder, ready to whack me with that fucking yardstick.

“You’re stupid. Idiot. It’s a five letter word. Get it out, Rathbone. We don’t have all day.”

It’s cowardly, but I don’t allow myself to look up. I turn the page and start on the next word, so focused on sounding them out that I’ve completely lost the thread of what this fairy bitch is up to. Page after page, mangled word after mangled word, curled over the book like it’s something illicit and hostile, until suddenly, there are no more pages to turn.

When I finally look up, I realize a few things. First, that I’m sweating bullets, so wearing a leather jacket over my hoodie was an awful idea. Second, that my reading has drawn a whole group of children. Third, that Story is right behind them, listening to me. Watching me. Judging me.

I slam the book shut and leap to my feet, grabbing her wrist. “Let’s go.”

“Hey,” she says, curling her hand around my arm. From the way she’s looking at me—being nice to me—I’m guessing she can see the wild, hunted thing in my expression. “What’s wrong? You did good.”

“No, I didn’t. I sounded like a fucking moron.” There’s a ten-year-old watching me, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about how much better at reading she is than me. I throw her a dark glower and she flinches away. “Who writes kids’ books with such hard words in them, anyway?”

“Adults,” she says, tugging me back to my spot in front of the box. “You made that kid’s day, and you absolutely did not sound like an idiot.”

She looks all sincere and earnest, but she’s lying. She has to be. I look down at him. He’s already started over at the beginning, finger skimming beneath the words, just like mine had. Bitterly, I muse, “Maybe if someone had taken the time with me when I was his age, I wouldn’t be such an idiot now.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she says, eyes just as full of steel as her voice. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself! You’ve got enough people doing that for you.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

She looks away, jaw set. “It means you’ve got people like the Princess calling you a thug. A flunkie. Someone with no future, who’s destined to always be a South Side lackey. Are you ever going to try to prove them all wrong?”

The words hit me like an anvil, snapping my head back in stunned fury. The Princess might be a mouthy, gossiping bitch, but the thing is, she’s not wrong. I think that’s what pisses me off the most. The Princess is right, and Story can’t handle it—can’t handle being tied to someone seen as ‘less’.

Stepping up to Story, I hiss, “Fuck you,” flinging the double doors wide as I storm out. I know she’s behind me, can hear those heels of her clacking in double time as she struggles to keep up with my strides.

“Let me guess,” she says, managing to sound both winded and bored. “This is the part where you lash out and throw a tantrum because someone possibly had an expectation—”

I whirl on her, jabbing a finger into her shoulder. “This is the part where you open your goddamn eyes!” We’re in the parking lot, right in front of Killian’s truck, but I still feel like I’m huddled over that stupid children’s book. “Look around, Story! Maybe we’ve fucked you up so much that you can’t accept reality, but here it is. I am a flunkie with no future. Killian is a neurotic meathead who’s never getting out from under Daniel’s thumb. Tristian is driving down a one-way street to nowheresville. And you?” I give a grim, breathless laugh. “Jesus Christ. We give you free room and board. We feed you. We clothe you. We shelter you. We give you expensive gifts to butter you up. And then we fuck you. You’re our whore, Story!” If I thought the look on her face would be satisfying, then I’m sorely mistaken. It doesn’t make it any less true. “If it makes you feel better to dress that up, then be my guest. Some of us don’t give a flying fuck what the Princess has to say about any of it. If that embarrasses you, then tough fucking shit.” I hold the passenger door open for her, waiting. When all I get is her blank, empty stare, I command, “Get in the truck.”

She does as she’s told, but not before tossing me one last grain of salt for the wound. “As you wish. Rath.”

I don’t let it get to me anymore than it already has. Being Dimitri—to the world, to her—was never anything more than a pipe dream, anyway.